


Raw Talent

by FourCatProductions



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Dirty Talk, Gets a little fluffy if you squint at the end there, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut, This is just smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tacitus isn't sure what brought him to Markarth, but he knows why he's stayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raw Talent

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the SKM, because there are never enough Orcs. I have a soft spot for the gro-Bagol siblings, and Tacitus seems like a sweetheart, so this kind of wrote itself.

Tacitus is tired.

This is nothing new. Lately, he's always tired, and Markarth's mountainous walls press in on him from all sides, suffocating. His back aches, he never feels completely clean - there's always grime under his nails and soot caked into his clothes, no matter how often he bathes - and Ghorza bellows in his ear day in and day out and makes him smith nails. He's made nothing but nails for the past six months, and no matter how hard he tries, it never seems like there's any real improvement.

He's been her apprentice for over a year and yet, he lives in constant fear that she'll eventually tire of him and send him away. Like he's still the same hapless boy who'd wandered into the city on a gamble, dusty, starving, and desperate for work. His life revolves around the crackle and clamor of the forge, the sharp, ringing cry of hammer against steel, and the endless parade of nails and hinges he's obliged to smith, hoping each morning that he'll finally be allowed to try something else. At this point, he'd cut off his left leg to graduate to daggers.

(Well, maybe not the _whole_ leg. But at least from the knee down.)

Today is somehow worse than usual, even though the routine is largely the same. He drops a pair of tongs into the forge, trips over the grindstone twice and knocks it over once, and accidentally reduces at least three ingots into unusable liquid metal while trying to smelt steel, all before lunch. Ghorza cuffs him about the back of the head and sets his ears ringing. He tries to stay out of her way after that, but it's a mere hour or two later that her hammer breaks, and she flings it away with a snarl.

"Boy!"

He has no choice but to come to attention, heart pounding. "Y-yes, Ghorza?"

"Hammer's broke. Run up to the Keep and get one of my brother's spares." He hesitates, and she glowers at him. "What are you waiting for, an invitation from the Jarl? Go!"

He goes, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste, as Ghorza isn't above throwing things to motivate him as necessary. She's never actually hit him with anything, though, which he chalks up to her (hopefully) disguising some sort of affection for him, rather than simply having poor aim.

He tries to dawdle, but it's a short walk, and with each step he climbs, the gnawing, anxious feeling in his gut bubbles and brews stronger, his palms and brow growing slick with sweat. He shouldn't be this nervous, he reminds himself as he slips through the front door and makes his way to the forge. There's no reason for him to be this nervous.

Except, of course, the reason currently bent over the anvil, hammering away at a red-hot blade.

Tacitus respects Ghorza - even likes the parts of her he's seen residing beneath her abrasive exterior, on the rare occasion he's been allowed to glimpse them - but Moth makes him feel like he swallowed a beehive. They all sleep in the same room, him, Ghorza and Moth; they eat meals at the same table and do the same work, and yet, they've only spoken to each other a handful of times. Sometimes he catches Moth looking at him with... well, not scorn, but something else, something that makes him feel hot and prickly all over and have to excuse himself.

A few months back, he'd accidentally overheard Moth tell a traveler who'd come by to try his sister if they couldn't find what they wanted among his wares, "but don't bother asking her assistant for anything, boy's got no talent". It had wounded his pride (what little there was to wound) more than he cared to admit; it was bad enough that everyone in Markarth knew he was hopeless, there was no need to shame him to every stranger who passed through town looking for a bit of metal.

He wants to dislike Moth, and nurse his lingering hurt. Unfortunately, that want is outweighed by another, more pressing fact: he finds Moth attractive in a way that's almost painful, that makes him stutter and squirm and forget himself even more than usual. He's touched himself more than once to the thought of those callused hands and hard tusks pressing against his thighs, late at night when he can get a rare moment to himself, and now isn't the time to be remembering such things, but he can't seem to rid himself of the thought.

He stands in the doorway, trying to muster up the courage to speak as he watches Moth work. The defined muscles in his back ripple under his tunic, arms rising and falling steadily with each blow of the hammer against steel. Not for the first time, Tacitus wonders why he's so drawn to someone who probably could crush him without a second thought.

"What do you need?" Moth asks abruptly. He doesn't look up from the task at hand, which is probably for the best, as he misses the deep blush that crawls up Tacitus' neck to stain his cheeks and ears crimson.

"Ghorza sent me to get a spare hammer," he explains, fidgeting with his apron.

Moth pauses long enough to jerk one meaty thumb over his shoulder at a wooden crate in the corner that houses a jumbled assortment of tools. "Help yourself."

He returns to his work, and Tacitus slinks over to the box, feeling as though he'd been caught doing something unsavory. He rifles through the various tools without really seeing them. He can't stop his gaze from drifting back to Moth while he does, but he never lets it linger for more than a second or two at most, lest he be caught staring. As soon as he finds a hammer, he rises, clutching it in his damp hands, and clears his throat.

"Um... thanks."

Moth turns his head this time, and gives him an appraising look, dark eyes tinted with orange and gold from the flame smoldering in the forge. Tactius swallows, hard.

"Run along to Ghorza, boy," he rumbles finally, and turns back to the anvil. "She won't look upon it kindly if you take too long."

_I'm not a boy,_ Tacitus wants to argue, but his mouth refuses to cooperate, and he instead finds his feet carrying him back the way he came. _No wonder he thinks you're useless,_ he berates himself. _You can't even stand up for yourself._

When he gets back to the smithy, Ghorza takes the hammer with a grunt and then sets him about smelting and shaping nails until he hammers three of his fingers, potentially breaking his thumb. Exasperated, she dismisses him to go get a healing potion from Bothela. He expects her to yell at him, but she just shakes her head, which is worse. Bothela gives him a potion and refuses to take his coin, and he sits in the cool dark of her shop until he dozes off and Muiri has to shake him awake.

"Ghorza's probably looking for you," she says apologetically.

Tacitus nods and stumbles back outside into the afternoon heat with a muttered thanks, disoriented and yawning. Ghorza yells at him for ten minutes about napping on the job and then sets him smithing hinges. This time, he manages to avoid pummeling any of his extremities, and is thankful when the sun finally dips below the horizon and he can stop for the day. Ghorza looks over his hinges with a critical eye and pronounces a few of them passable. He supposes that's better than nothing.

 

The best part about living in Markarth is, by far, the baths. Understone Keep has a sprawling and complex system of underground bathing pools, heated and cleansed regularly thanks to Calcelmo's obsessive restoration of the Dwemer mechanisms that populate the city. Tacitus has no idea how they work, but he's grateful for them, especially after the day he's had.

Well after dinner, when almost everyone is asleep for the night, he steals off to the enormous rooms that house the main baths, and is gratified to discover them empty. He strips down and sinks into the steaming water, closing his eyes. The sides of the basin are smooth and cool, a nice contrast to the heat surrounding him, and he leans back, trying unsuccessfully to empty his mind of all thought.

Truth be told, he has no idea what he's still doing here, in a city built on corruption and greed, trying to make a living out of work that he's not at all suited for. He knows he must have had a reason for begging Ghorza to take him on as her apprentice, but he can no longer remember what it was.

_Maybe there never was one._

He sinks into the water up to his chin, and then further still, submerging himself, holding his breath until his lungs start to burn and he's forced to resurface, gasping and shoving sodden hair out of his eyes. It feels good to be clean, and he wishes he could sluice away the things that eat at his confidence as easily as the day's dirt and grime.

"Didn't expect to see you here."

Tacitus' eyes snap open and he whips his head up like a startled fawn. Moth is standing across the bath from him, wearing a towel draped loosely about his hips and nothing else, like the statue of some ancient warrior, chiseled and carved by a reverent hand. It's all Tacitus can do not to gape while his cock twitches at the sight. He curls into himself.

"A bath sounded nice," he says, wondering why he feels the need to explain even as his heart sinks. He'd been enjoying himself, but he supposes Moth will want to be left in peace; after all, while he's never been directly cruel, he's certainly never attempted to seek out Tacitus' company, and why would he? He's a real blacksmith, with no need to concern himself with the affairs or well-being of his sister's useless apprentice. "I'll, um, leave you to it."

He twists around and reaches for his clothing, intending to climb out of the tub, but Moth's next words stop him cold.

"Where are you going?"

"What? I-I thought..." Tacitus stammers and trails off, at a loss to explain what, exactly, it was that he'd thought.

"Bath's big enough for two." Moth drops his towel, and it's all Tacitus can do to keep his eyes firmly trained somewhere around his collarbones, which doesn't prove that helpful in the long run - he just ends up distracted by the thick, corded muscle of Moth's neck and the dip in his throat, made for someone's lips and tongue to lavish attention on them. Moth doesn't seem to notice. He sinks into the water with a grunt, closing his eyes. When he opens them, he's staring directly at Tacitus. "Something wrong?"

"No, everything's fine," Tacitus says, voice cracking a bit, and realizes that he's still clutching his shirt. He drops it and melts back into the water up to his neck. "It's fine."

Moth looks skeptical, but doesn't press the issue. They fall into silence then, broken only by the periodic hiss and groan of the pipes as they release more steam, and Tacitus tries to relax, but is utterly unable to do so. Something in him feels small and tight, trapped like a rabbit in a snare, and the irony of the situation doesn't escape him - he's allowed himself to idly fantasize about this exact scenario on more than one occasion, and now that he's confronted with the reality, he wants nothing more than to run away.

He tries not to stare, but similar to their earlier encounter, can't stop himself. His eyes keep drifting back of their own accord, drinking in every little detail; the tips of Moth's tusks gleaming like ivory in the dim light, the beads of sweat dappling his deep olive skin and clinging to his dark hair and neatly-trimmed beard, the surprisingly long eyelashes casting fringed shadows on his cheekbones -

"See something you like?"

For a brief moment, Tacitus wonders if drowning himself would really be so bad.

"What? No! No," he croaks, face crimson, and then realizes too late that this could be perceived as an insult, which only serves to fluster him further. "I-I mean, not that you're not - um, that is to say - "

Moth lets out a short bark of laughter, startling him into silence. "I was joking."

"Oh." Silence descends, even more interminably awkward than the last time. Tacitus chews on his thumbnail, a long-time nervous habit.

Moth juts his chin forward, nods jerkily at him. "How's the hand?" Tacitus stares at him, uncomprehending until he clarifies, "Ghorza told me you got yourself with the hammer earlier. Sounded pretty bad."

Tacitus drops his hand from his mouth instinctively, stung. Of _course_ she'd told her brother about that. As if Moth needed another reason to pity him.

"It's fine," he says stiffly. "Bothela gave me a potion."

Moth nods. "Good."

He doesn't appear to have anything else to add, just settles further down into the water and sighs. This stilted conversation is setting Tacitus' teeth on edge. He worries at his lower lip until he can take it no more.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Now it's Moth's turn to stare, thick brows furrowed. "You don't even like me."

"I never said I don't like you," Moth replies easily, leaning back against the side of the bath. Simple as that - _I never said I don't like you._

"But - you - "

"I what?" Moth's gaze bores into him, and he shrinks back a little, but refuses to be cowed. He needs an answer to remedy this sudden confusion.

"You never talk to me! Even when you're not working. You barely even look at me most of the time. And I heard you, one time... you said that I was - was useless." He fumbles a bit at the end, voice wavering. Moth makes an exasperated noise deep in his chest.

"Workin' for the Jarl is a full time job. I don't have time for tea and sweetrolls with anyone who wanders in. And I'm definitely not sending a potential customer to someone who can't even properly forge a dagger, let alone armor." A hot tendril of shame winds its way around Tacitus' throat and pulls tight, but loosens slightly when Moth adds, "Doesn't mean you'll never be able to. Ghorza's good. She wouldn't keep you on unless she saw somethin' in you. Just do what she says and you'll be fine."

Tacitus has no idea what to do with this new information - _they really don't think I'm hopeless?_ \- so he just sits there blankly, staring until Moth snorts and shakes his head.

"Still think I don't like you?"

"Why don't you talk to me when you're not working?" he hears himself ask. "I've tried to talk to you."

"My sister doesn't like it when I fuck her apprentices," Moth says bluntly.

For a moment, Tacitus can't breathe. 

"Y-you want... with _me_?" he finally stutters, biting back a thoroughly mortifying noise at the thought of that body intertwined with his own. It's so perfect a thought, so good and so  _right_ that it's all he can do to stop himself from scrambling across the divide that separates them and showing Moth exactly what he thinks of that idea.

Moth's expression doesn't change, but there's a shift in the air, tension becoming anticipation. He leans forward, cocking his head, and his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

"Why don't you come here and find out?"

Tacitus doesn't move at first, mainly because he's still trying to process that this is even happening, and Moth's face softens, though his eyes remain as black and inscrutable as ever. "You don't have to. Offer's open, though. If you're interested."

He nods once, not trusting himself to speak. His mouth is dry. His cock is hard against his leg.

"Not scared of me, are you, boy?" 

Tacitus scowls, goaded. "I'm not a boy."

Moth's smile is crooked. "Prove it, then."

Tacitus has only kissed two people in his life, and neither of them were Orcs. He's often wondered if their tusks might get in the way, and if he'd ever have a chance to find out. They don't, really. Moth is warm and solid under his hands and his lips are surprisingly soft as Tacitus straddles his thighs, wrapping his arms tight around those broad shoulders. Moth rumbles low in his chest, pleased, and licks into his mouth, grabbing his ass and kneading it possessively as Tacitus' cock rubs against his stomach, flushed and sticky.

Tacitus is panting a little when they finally break apart, lips wet, hair sticking up at all angles, and he arches back into Moth's hands, can't help the groan that escapes as he's pulled closer.

"Doesn't take much to get you going, does it?" It's not really a question, and when Tacitus starts to protest, he's silenced with another searing kiss. "Not a bad thing. I like it," Moth says, sliding one of those massive hands into Tacitus' hair and tugging his hair back so he can nibble and suck at his neck and collarbone, leaving dark bruises like a brand on the soft skin there.

(Tacitus wonders what Ghorza will think. Moth licks a hot stripe along his pulse point and he decides that he doesn't care.)

At a certain point, the water sloshing around them becomes uncomfortably warm, his skin becoming shiny and pink, and Moth pats his thigh firmly. "Up." They get out of the bath - at least, Moth does. Tacitus sort of flops, boneless, onto the cool stone and lays there, light-headed and more aroused than previously thought possible. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Moth pick up his towel and wrap it back around his waist.

"Wait here. I'll be back."

Tacitus is prepared to wait for an eternity, if that's what Moth wants. Nothing is going to tear him from that spot on the floor. He stares up at the ceiling and listens to the sound of bare feet as they pad off into the distance and out of the room. He raises his hand, absently touches his lips and throat, both now tender from the attention lavished on them; his other hand wraps around his cock, stroking it from base to tip with long, unsteady motions, making sure it stays swollen and twitching.

He wants to stay hard for Moth, wants him to see how much Tacitus desires him, _has_ desired him for months now, despite their rocky start, and so there he stays, touching himself gingerly and swallowing soft whimpers until a long shadow falls over him and that deep voice says, "Well. Look at you."

Tacitus stops moving his hand, but keeps it on his cock, even as his ears burn and little drops of pre-cum beads at the tip. He's never going to be able to listen to Moth speak again without getting at least half-hard, he knows it. A bundle of furs lands on the floor next to him, and then Moth is kneeling next to him and touching his mouth, still red and kiss-swollen, tracing the curve of his lips.

"You really that desperate for me?"

"Yes," Tacitus says, lust making him honest, and draws Moth's fingertips into his mouth with his tongue.

Moth's eyes darken, nostrils flaring, and he inhales sharply, almost like he's scenting prey. The thought shouldn't turn Tacitus on as much as it does, but he'd be lying if he tried to pretend that it doesn't send a jolt right down his spine to his aching shaft. Moth pulls away for the moment to spread the furs out, tucking and folding the edges to form a makeshift bed, and sets a little vial next to them. It's only upon realizing what that must be for does the full gravity of the situation start to sink in.

Doubt worms its way back in. "You don't think the guards will... you know. Bother us?"

"I can promise we're not the first to do this in here," Moth points out, and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. "You didn't seem that concerned about it a second ago."

They regard one another then, Tacitus flushed and breathing hard, Moth calm, but only in the way that the ocean is calm before it becomes a maelstrom. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Moth reminds him.

Tacitus looks at him kneeling there, all muscle and sinew, a sizable bulge barely concealed by the towel and dark heat in his eyes, and _yes,_ he wants. The last flimsy shreds of reluctance dissolve in a rush of yearning, and he rolls over and up into a kneeling position and shoves at Moth, trying to get him to lay down on the furs. Moth complies, sprawling backwards and pulling Tacitus on top of him so their bodies are pressed flush against one another, hips aligning as their mouths slot together once more.

Somehow, the towel had gotten lost in the shuffle, and he can feel Moth pressed against the junction of his thigh; when he glances down, raising his torso slightly to get a better look, a shudder thrills through him, nervous and anticipatory in equal measure.

"You're _huge,_ " he whispers.

Moth chuckles. "So I've been told." He slides his hands around to Tacitus' lower back and presses down gently, rejoining their bodies as he rocks his hips upwards, their cocks rubbing against one another in a sweet glide of skin on skin that has Tacitus burying his face against the strong line of Moth's throat. He kisses and nips at the skin there, all teeth and tongue, sloppy in his enthusiasm, because this is real, it's _Moth_ under him, Moth's hands on his back and thighs, Moth's legs bracketing his hips, Moth's tongue tracing the curve of his ear and finding the delicate hollow just behind it, the one that makes him squirm when it's kissed.

"I'm gonna open you up now," Moth murmurs, biting at his shoulder, careful not to nick him with the end of his tusks. "Is that okay?"

Tacitus nods frantically, because he doesn't trust himself to speak right now, doesn't trust his voice not to come out all fluttery and high and embarrassing -

A thick finger brushes lightly against his hole, coated in something cool and slippery, and he jumps a little. "You ever done this before?"

"A couple of times," he confesses, barely audible. "By myself. I wanted to know what it felt like..."

Moth's fingers tease at him, barely pressing, just feeling him, and he drops his head and groans at the sensation, both familiar and not. "Good. It'll be easier, then." The finger starts to push in, and Moth kisses him slow and deep by way of apology. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."

It doesn't hurt, exactly, but the slow burn of being stretched out is there, and he can't decide if he likes it or not (his own fingers aren't quite this big), so he arches his back a little, trying to get used to it.

"Just feels... full." He exhales shakily, and lets Moth work his finger deeper, breath coming in short little pants now.

Moth groans and grinds up against Tacitus once more, smearing both of their bellies with pre-cum. "Thought about this before," he rasps in Tacitus' ear, free hand on his ass, cupping the curve of it and spreading it, giving his fingers better access. "Plenty of times. Never sure if you wanted to, though. Didn't wanna push it."

"Gods, _yes_ \- " Tacitus writhes against him as a second, oil-slick finger is added, unable to comprehend what he's hearing. Moth had thought about him, the way he'd thought about Moth? An image flashes into his mind, unbidden: the blacksmith jerking himself off late at night, under the cover of darkness, biting his lip so he didn't make any sound, trembling with the effort of holding himself still as his cock pulsed and he coated his own hand with his seed.

It's enough to nearly push Tacitus over the edge, and he almost does come just then, as Moth's fingers brush against _something_ that has him seeing pinpricks of white-hot light behind his eyelids and forces a moan from his lips. He scrabbles helplessly at Moth's chest and biceps, needing something to hold onto, and a sob bubbles up in his throat as it happens again.

"It's okay," Moth soothes him, groping for the vial and pouring more oil over his hand once he's found it. "One more finger and then you can take it. You still want my cock?"

Tacitus lets out a sort of breathless laugh-snort at that, because he can't imagine a world in which he _wouldn't_ want that, and rolls his hips back into it, laugh quickly giving way to a soft moan as the third finger finds its way into him. Together, they work him open, stretching and gently thrusting until he's all exposed, squirming on top of the unyielding form beneath him.

"Okay, okay, just do it already," he huffs, voice scratchy, and Moth laughs at him. It's not mean, though, and he can't help laughing too, because it's a strange position he's found himself in. Less then a day ago, they were barely on speaking terms, and now he's about to have sex in the public baths. With  _Moth._ His teenage self would be proud.

His laugh bleeds into a moan when Moth pulls his fingers free. He rolls them over so Tacitus is on his back and Moth is looming over him, sitting on his haunches. He slicks oil down the length of his cock.

Olive skin gleams wetly in the torchlight, and he drags his free hand down Tacitus' stomach and thighs, growling with barely-contained want as the muscles there twitch and flutter beneath his fingertips. "You ready?"

Tacitus doesn't have words for how ready he is, so he just hooks his ankles around Moth's thighs and drags him forward, trying to get the message across. It works well enough, because the next thing he knows, the blacksmith's body is pinning him to the makeshift bed and a greasy hand wraps around him; he throws his head back and gasps, and Moth surges forward and swallows the sound as he begins to push inside.

It hurts a bit, though less than expected, thanks to their diligent preparation, and Tacitus winces despite himself. Moth stops immediately, concern scrawled across his face. "Too much?"

"No, just... give me a minute," Tacitus mumbles, and Moth keeps still, letting him get used to the sensation and giving him full reign over how fast they go. With agonizing slowness, Tacitus rolls his hips, taking Moth deeper, inch by inch, breath hitching as he manages to angle himself just right to rub that spot inside him against the thick cock seated inside him, sending jolts of pleasure throughout him.

He can feel Moth trembling over him, all around him, every inch of that muscular frame straining to hold back and let Tacitus take his time. He knows it must be difficult, but Moth remains silent and immobile as a statue, eyes closed, sweat dripping down his temples as he lets Tacitus get comfortable. He feels a sudden rush of affection for how gentle and patient Moth has been this whole time, but he doesn't want gentle. Not right now. With one final rock of his hips, he takes the rest of it fully into himself.

There's no more pain, just the faint discomfort of a new and unfamiliar sensation, and he knows he's going to be sore in the morning, but decides that it's well worth the trouble. He clenches his muscles deliberately, and Moth's eyes snap open, dark and unfocused with lust. Tacitus reaches up and twines his arms around Moth's neck, tugging him down so their foreheads are pressed together and wrapping his calves around that broad waist the best he can.

"Fuck me," he whispers.

Moth complies.

The first few thrusts are too slow for his liking, and he has to dig his blunt nails into the meat of Moth's back and moan to get him to _move,_ already - he's not made of glass, he can take it - but when he does, it's everything Tacitus has always wanted and never had. He's no virgin, though he wouldn't call himself experienced, either; he's tumbled a few times with a farmer's daughter and a stable boy in the past, all in good, harmless fun. But Moth grabs his thighs with a guttural groan, hoists his hips effortlessly and _drives_ into him, wrenching a shocked gasp from his throat.

He's never been fucked like this, with this kind of focus, this kind of intensity, so overwhelming that it's all he can do to ride it out, each movement wringing more involuntary, breathless noises out of him.

It's messy and frantic, a visceral tangle of bodies and he has to keep himself from rutting into his fist for all he's worth because he can't let himself get off that fast, he needs this to last until he can't take it anymore, until they're both spent and gasping on the floor, unable to move. He tries to match the pace Moth is setting with renewed determination, and it's not perfect, but the noises he's getting in response are.

"You feel good," Moth groans in his ear, deep and harsh, breath hot against his skin. "Always thought you would."

Tacitus just _melts_ at that, babbling nonsensical phrases that he can't remember the second they leave his lips, arching into that iron grip and trying to grind his aching cock against the solid body above him. Moth catches him and holds him there, teasing him as he moves away slightly, leaving Tacitus to buck and throb against the air, half-sobbing with frustrated want.

The new angle lets Moth rub himself against that sweet spot, the head of his cock catching it with each thrust, and Tacitus is seeing stardust behind his eyelids now, shimmery and translucent - it borders on too much, but he wants more all the same.

When he opens his bleary eyes, the way on Moth is staring down at him makes him immediately close them again, cock twitching and dripping because that's the most intense thing of all and it really is too much. But Moth won't let him hide. He presses Tacitus back into the furs and stops moving, all but snarls, " _Look at me_."

Tacitus looks. He has no choice.

Moth's teeth are bared, eyes glistening and alive with heat, face all screwed up with the effort of holding back, holding out, and there's something in his expression, his _voice_ that just crawls its way under Tacitus' skin and makes him bite his own forearm to stifle a wail because it's so gods-damned overwhelming and he feels like his body isn't big enough to contain everything he's feeling right now.

"Fuck yourself on my cock."

Tacitus' breath hitches, stutters as Moth leans in, pressing tusks and teeth into his shoulder, hard enough to bruise without breaking skin. "Do it. Show me how you like it."

He starts off slow, presses himself against Moth with steady glides of skin on skin that have them both breathing heavy, air thick with the scent of sex. But it's not enough, and soon he's just taking what he wants as best he can with jerky, raw movements, cock sticky and red, throbbing with the need for release. Moth reaches between them and curls his big, callused hand loosely around it, letting Tacitus fuck into his fist, and it's too good, too much, and then he's squirming and shuddering, fucked-out noises falling from his lips. Moth stares down at where their bodies are joined, gaze inky-black, transfixed by the sight.

"Please," he slurs, muscles straining and jerking, "gods, Moth, _please_ \- "

Moth swears, unintelligible and harsh in the empty, cavernous room that surrounds them. Tacitus' eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back and mouth open, pink and wet; Moth makes a desperate, angry sound and pins him down once more, tightens the hot grip around his dick, and fucks him hard, nailing against that spot inside him mercilessly until he cries out and spatters his belly and Moth's knuckles pearly white.

His orgasm tears through him fast, leaves him gasping and limp, and he has no time to catch his breath before Moth manhandles him into an upright position, turning him around so he's braced back to chest and straddling muscular thighs, those massive arms the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

He's drunk on sensation, loose-limbed and light-headed, every inch of him oversensitive, but he doesn't protest as he's fucked into a trembly mess, even as little whines are forced from his lips with each thrust. It's almost as if his orgasm never completely stopped, just softened and faded into the backdrop of pleasure-pain humming through every inch of his body. Moth holds him up and fucks into him, and Tacitus blearily thinks that it must take an immense amount of effort to do so in such a position, but the smith shows no signs of fatigue, other than the deep, ragged breaths he exhales against Tacitus' cheek.

Tacitus lets his head loll back against Moth's shoulder and moans, unashamed, at the feel of all that hard, wet heat inside of him.

"I want - " He doesn't think about it, doesn't even recognize his own voice, so blissful and gravelly at the same time, just gasps - "I want to feel - oh gods, _fuck_ \- feel you come in me..." 

His halting confession has Moth shuddering against him, the fingertips at his ribs and hip digging in so deep they're sure to leave bruises, a physical brand of their night together, and he hisses at the sensation, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Say it again," Moth rasps, and grinds up against him, pulling Tacitus down onto his cock until he's as deep as he can get, eliciting another choked-off moan.

"I want you to come in me," Tacitus repeats obediently, gritting out each word as best he can between moans, the last syllable lost to a groan as he revels in the filthy thrill of it and the way the thought of it makes his exhausted dick twitch.

Moth makes some kind of wounded, primal noise and rears up, like he needs to be even deeper, like he wants to climb inside Tacitus, and manages another few choppy, crude strokes before he comes, hips jerking helplessly.

A rush of heat floods Tacitus, and he whimpers, pressing back against Moth because the reality of the situation has just hit him and he can't quite wrap his head around it all, needs something to ground him. Moth stills, clutching him like a lifeline, and for a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of their labored breathing, harsh as it mingles together in the silence. After a moment, Moth's grip softens, and he snuffles at the back of Tacitus' neck, lips and tusks cool against the damp skin there. 

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, I'm..." He's not sure what to say here, because his head is buzzing and he can't think of a word to properly encompass everything he's feeling right now, so instead he just cranes his head around and kisses Moth as best he can in the awkward position.

Moth kisses him back after a split second, nibbling delicately at his lower lip, then presses another kiss against his jawline. "I'm going to pull out now, okay?" He does the best he can to make it a smooth transition, coaxing Tacitus onto his hands and knees so he can ease out a bit at a time, and it's both awkward and strangely endearing, the way he mumbles nonsense and pets Tacitus as they disentangle themselves.

It's still a bit uncomfortable when all is said and done, though, and Tacitus whimpers as he feels another rush of that heat ooze out of him, spilling down the backs of his thighs, sore and vulnerable as he's ever been. Moth helps him up, supporting him when he stumbles, and together they sink back into the baths, washing away sweat and slick and grime. Once he can move again, he crawls into Moth's lap once more, kisses him firmly, and says, sincere and fervent, "Thanks."

"Pleasure's all mine," Moth says, caressing the curve of Tacitus' spine with idle fingers. "Anytime you wanna do this, let me know."

Tacitus thinks this is a very good plan indeed, and neither one of them says anything for the next several moments, busy exploring one another's mouths with less haste this time around.

When they do finally separate, he buries his face against Moth's neck with a sigh. "Good thing we did this in here, actually. I needed a second bath after... all that."

"Speaking of which, let's get you cleaned up." Moth's hands slide between his thighs, ghosting over his cock before sliding around to palm his ass, spreading him to rub callused fingers teasingly at the tender, puffy flesh there, still faintly sticky with oil and come, and Tacitus gulps, eyes widening.

"Next time," Moth adds, voice dropping into a purr, "I wanna get my mouth on you first, right here. Think we can manage that?"

Tacitus' only response is a shaky little moan, swallowed up by the creak and hiss of the pipes as they flood the room with fresh steam.

 

The following morning, he's at the forge before Ghorza, even, whistling an old tune he only half-remembers while he smelts nails. It's not long before she comes down the stairs, only to stop dead in her tracks at the bottom and stare at him like he's sprouted a second head. He raises a hand in greeting, all smiles. "Morning, Ghorza!"

She doesn't answer, just stalks over to him, eyes narrowed and suspicious. He gestures at the pile of nails already stacked on the workbench, silently inviting critique, but instead, her hand shoots out and grabs his jaw, vice-like. He grunts, too surprised to object, or indeed, do much of anything except stand there and let her examine him, turning his head from side to side as she surveys the deep purple lovebites that litter his neck and disappear into the collar of his shirt. She finally lets him go with a grimace, and he stumbles back, massaging his jaw.

"What was that for?"

"Keep working, boy!" She jabs her finger at the anvil, mouth tight and nostrils flared. "I want to see that bench covered by the time I get back." With that, she turns on her heel and marches back the way she came.

"Where are you going?" He calls after her.

Her answer rings back, sharp and clear as it echoes off the stone. "To turn my brother's hide into armor!"

Tacitus has to brace himself against one of the nearby pillars, he's trying so hard not to laugh. He waits until she's gone before he lets it out, causing a pair of guards to look at him oddly as they pass by. His muscles ache, he's bruised and he can't quite sit down properly, and yet, he's never felt better. He thinks about the blacksmith's promise, about wanting to get his mouth on him, and flushes, already half-hard at the prospect.

He wonders if Moth might be up for another bath.


End file.
